“Mrs.
Cavanaugh,” I asked the octogenarian, “What can you tell me about what
happened?”
Despite her
advanced years and blue hair, she didn’t need glasses, and her mind was
surprisingly agile. “Well, young man, it’s like I told Reverend Michaels. I was
finishing up the books from the collection, settling the budget for our
Christmas Program in a few days when I heard some noise outside.”
“Squealing
tires. Like when someone stops too quickly, not when they hit the gas. My
Frederick used to do that to me. He was a real hot-rodder back in the day. We
even used to have drag races. I would even start them. I tell you, back then
I—”
“Mrs.
Cavanaugh,” I broke in, “the noise?”
“Pish,
young man, you shouldn’t interrupt a woman at my age having a good memory.”
“I’m
sorry.”
“No harm
done. Anyway, I went to the window and opened it. I couldn’t see the front lawn
where the Nativity was, but I saw the car. It was an older one, kind of blocky,
not like those fast-looking ones today.”
I scratched
the information down along with a note to look for cars from the eighties, the
height of the square and unimaginative car designs.
“There were
four of them, and they ran back to the car with their arms full of the
nativity. They stuffed what they could in the trunk, then climbed into the car
with the rest. Why, two of them had to hold Joseph outside the windows as they
drove off.”